


It is the East, and Natsuki is the Sun

by Keemax



Category: Uta no Prince-sama
Genre: I became determined to rehash an old xmas fanfic troupe so let's see how well that turned out, M/M, Ren is mentioned - Freeform, Tokiya represses his emotions and that makes me sad, Utapri Secret Santa 2019, i am but a tiny goblin and the holidays are a giant spinning teacup, in a way that repeatedly smacks me unconscious, that launches me through space and time, this is being posted horrendously and shamefully late and i do apologize for that, this is the first time in three weeks that i've sat down for more than three minutes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-03
Updated: 2020-01-03
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:14:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22106137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Keemax/pseuds/Keemax
Summary: There are things that Tokiya does not think about. Because an idol should not, could not, think about them.One of those things is the tilt of Natsuki's mouth, or the way he brightens, like the sun on the sea, when he spots that little clump of mistletoe taped to the elevator ceiling.
Relationships: Ichinose Tokiya/Shinomiya Natsuki
Comments: 1
Kudos: 21





	It is the East, and Natsuki is the Sun

**Author's Note:**

> Part of the Utapri Secret Santa 2019: this is my gift to Camy! (again, I profusely apologize that it took me this long to post ;v;)

He sees the plant when, and only when, Natsuki has encompassed him. When upward is the only direction in which to look, like how the drowned look upon the surface of the sea.

Until then there were other things, many other things, that float around him, by him, to soak in his attention.

There is the clean, sterile smell in Shining Agency’s elevator like wet steel with the sting of citrus and ammonia in the nostrils. There is the soft rustle of brown paper as Natsuki sets their purchases down on the elevator floor. There is both heat from the lobby sinking down into his cheeks and the gauze of winter air still coating his skin like a membrane, sucking and spreading across his fingers when he reaches to push the button.

There is also Natsuki. There is his voice, it’s hum tinned across the walls like the sound of the ocean trapped inside the curve of a shell. There is his presence radiating warmth that Tokiya can feel from three feet away. The sun on the sea, making the chill in Tokiya’s skin chatter like teeth.

And then

“Oh – that’s the wrong one”

And then Natsuki is leaning over him, one hand on Tokiya’s shoulder, the other reaching around to the button on the console. Cinnamon breath puffs against Tokiya’s cheek and his skin’s frigid shiver recoils to just the tips of his fingers and the end of his nose. The spark of his pulse begins to quicken, but at such a proximity Natsuki would surely feel it through his clothes.

_Breathe in. Breathe out_.

_In. Out._

Tokiya looks upward, away, and spots a few sprigs of green taped to the elevator ceiling.

Natsuki must’ve followed his gaze, because a moment later -

“Oh it’s mistletoe!”

-is breathed against the shell of Tokiya’s ear. This time Tokiya does shiver, but Natsuki had already straightened and reached to trace the leaves of the clipping. “And who put you here?”

_In. Out._

“Ren, I suppose.” Tokiya grumbles, closes his eyes and rolls his shoulders. When they’re suitably relaxed he opens them again, side-eyes Natsuki and then the plant in question.

“You think so?” Natsuki hums, otherwise preoccupied with smoothing his thumb over the masking tape securing the bundle.

“He’s an idiot, so it seems appropriate.”

“Ah,” Natsuki frowns, drops his arm back to his side and, finally, tilts his head to look at Tokiya, “That’s not nice.”

Tokiya snorts.

Ren was an idiot because he’d once given Tokiya a ‘Thank You’ gift for a TV hostess and, Tokiya having made the error of neither checking contents of said gift or buying his own before the appointment, presented it during the live recording only to discover that the package contained a pair of lace underwear. As the woman, bewildered, had turned them over in her hands Ren, standing in the wing of stage left, met Tokiya’s gaze of supressed panic and offered his silent condolences.

That is to say, he had nodded and winked. His hand had made a gesture commonly associated with good cooking, in which the forefinger and thumb are pressed together to make a circle and the other three are held straight.

(It could be said that Tokiya had very nearly knocked him into the river on the way back to the agency. But only if ‘ _very nearly_ ’ translated to ‘ _intensely pondering_ ’)

“I wasn’t aware of a better word to use.” Tokiya looks to the opposite wall. His distorted reflection stares back, twisted and spread thin across the sheet metal. Where his and Natsuki’s silhouettes blur and intertwine. It depicts them with an accuracy that Tokiya wishes could be true; from the reflection alone an onlooker might think that Natsuki was at Tokiya’s back, arms draped over his shoulders and chin on the top of his head.

If Ren is an idiot then Tokiya must be a hypocrite of the same, shameful degree.

“A romantic?” Natsuki says, “A traditionalist?”

“Ren only follows tradition when it suits him.”

Natsuki hums, and although the blob of his metallic face has the expression detail of a misshapen ink blot, Tokiya can see the expression clearly in his mind’s eye.

One hand curled under the chin, finger tapping the jawbone, eyelids half-mast. The light glides down the frames of his glasses and across blonde lashes like ripples in the sand.

Sometimes Tokiya thinks of Natsuki making that same expression, but with his free hand under Tokiya’s chin, the pad of his thumb pressing Tokiya’s lip.

Ren is an idiot. Tokiya is a hypocrite.

_In. Out._

Tokiya reaches out, presses the correct button on the console, stuffs his hands in his blazar pockets and breathes to the sound of the elevator lurching on its conveyor.

And then:

“Should _we_ follow tradition?”

Tradition?

Tokiya looks to find Natsuki with a curious tilt to his head, one finger pointed up towards the mistletoe.

Tradition, as in-?

“Uh.” Is what Tokiya says.

“We’re both standing under it.” Natsuki had a certain glint in his eye. One that Tokiya would presume Syo recognized quite well.

“Uh.” Tokiya’s brain scrabbles at images not unlike a cat that’s been thrown into the bathtub. _Tradition. Mistletoe Tradition_ – all of what skates into mind are flashes from American Christmas movies. There is snow. There are front door porches. There is often, regrettably, only a man and a woman. Puffs of breath like silver smoke. Holly berry red noses, lips, cheeks and fingers. Movies you might enjoy watching if you were forty-five, had only a cat and a bottle of wine for company.

_In. Out._

Natsuki’s brightness has not faltered, but there is something incredibly alert in his expression as his gaze stays fixed on Tokiya’s face.

“Don’t you want to?” a smile creases the corners of his eyes, “It’s a cute tradition, don’t you think?”

_In. Out._

Tokiya decides his tongue must be swollen. It suddenly feels as though it must actually belong to a horse – far too thick and fat to move within the cavity of his mouth.

“I’m not –” he swallows, with some difficulty, and in a way that must surely be audible to Natsuki, “I’m not opposed. Per sae.”

(Not opposed. Not opposed as in not, with surgical precision, thinking of Natsuki on a front porch in the snow. As in not thinking of Natsuki with his hands cradling his jaw and eyes as green and bright as the mistletoe in the evening light.)

_In. Out._

Natsuki beams.

Then he leans, says hold still, and takes Tokiya’s chin between his thumb and forefinger.

And Tokiya can’t, all of a sudden, manage to look him in the eye.

He clenches his eyes shut, hard, just as a light pressure lands on his cheek. It repeats on the other, soft as a butterfly wing.

Natsuki pulls back and stands upright. Tokiya blinks, muscles still coiled and unmoving.

_In. Out._

Natsuki is also looking at him, again, but now his mouth his pulled down at the corner and the brightness from before has darkened. His eyes seem to flick across Tokiya’s frame: no doubt noting the stiffness in his limbs and the heat clinging on his cheekbones and the way he feels his throat quiver as he swallows.

Ren was an idiot. Natsuki, unfortunately, was not.

There’s a beat, or a few, of little but the elevator’s mechanical shiver and the pounding of his pulse in his ears.

_One._ The sharp automated ping from the console speaker.

_Two._ The elevator doors rattle open.

_Three._ Natsuki’s pupils contrict, swallowed by fields of Spring. His mouth falls open a little.

“You thought - ?”

Tokiya’s hands fly out of his pockets, fingers splayed as if they would catch the words between them. As if, by doing so, the connotation that comes with them could be speared and tossed aside. Much like the clipping of mistletoe after it inevitably withers; thrown away, forgotten, left to rot in compost and ceases to exist.

_In. Out._

“I misread the situation. That’s all”

His voice is curt. Natsuki continues to stare at him, wide and wordless.

_In. Out._

His hands move to tug the sides of his jacket just below the collar, pulling the fabric taut and hard against his neck. He walks away.

Long strides that take him past Natsuki and into the hall. The large windows along the corridor leak frigid outside air through the cracks between the panes and it kisses his wrists, slipping beneath the thin material of his blazar.

From behind him, the faint crinkle of brown paper and thudding footfalls follow his wake. He only moves faster, breath becoming harsher and exhaling through his mouth.

_In. Out._

His ears begin to ring, enough so that any footsteps are swallowed by it, and he pauses at the turn in the corridor on instinct, turning to look for any imminent, oncoming collisions.

And he is interrupted.

A tug at his elbow. Sharp enough to halt his momentum and reverse it, making it so Tokiya spins backward on a sharp exclamation.

He overbalances and is steadied by, presumably, Natsuki’s hand. All he can see for a moment is pale skin and golden curls, dripping like sunshine onto the sandy shore.

There is a delicate, insistent pressure on his mouth. His pulse sparks yet again and the blood begins to flush the skin of his neck.

Natsuki pulls back and looks at him, quietly, for a second or two. There is, perhaps, in the right lighting, a brush of pale pink lining his cheekbones.

He then moves the paper bags to his chest and holds them there. He walks past Tokiya and calls out his usual bright, cheerful greeting to someone he must’ve spotted at the other end of the hall.

Tokiya remains still. His hand rises, almost uncertain, and traces the edge of his lip with a single finger.

Realization then strikes, and this time it is the _entirely_ of Tokiya’s face that not only floods, but positively _burns_ with heat.

**Author's Note:**

> So I ended up researching French xmas traditions for this.  
> I'm not 100% sure of the validity, but I read that, in France, mistletoe is a symbol of good luck and that it's also common to exchange kisses with loved ones under it, not just a love interest/significant other. For the sake of the fic, I took that to mean that platonic kisses are also exchanged under mistletoe, which is why Natsuki thinks nothing of it until he sees how Tokiya reacts, but that may not be true to the real life tradition.


End file.
